“And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. “You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness.
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